Home
by Rani of KuchNahi
Summary: is where the heart is. AmeCan.


**Hello! How are you this fine day?**

**Warnings: **Fluff. Plus some angst. But mostly fluff.

**Pairings: **Just AmeCan in this one.

**Disclaimer: **Pfffffft.

* * *

Matthew isn't one for dancing, not in places like this. He prefers dancing in small, crowded pubs to the tune of a fiddle, not in large, decadent ballrooms, where all the gathered nations wore stuffy suits and long, flowing dresses.

That doesn't mean the nations are expressing proper ballroom decorum, but that still means that there is slow dancing, and Matthew hunches further into himself, pressing his shoulders into the wall. He wishes he hadn't left Kumajirou at home, so that he would at least have something to hold onto.

"Matt?" he hears, and he looks up to see Alfred, smiling shyly. That smile is so unsure, so out of place on his face. Alfred is bowed slightly at the waist, and his hand is extended out towards Matthew. "Do you want to dance?"

Matthew feels heat rise on his cheeks. He feels some of the other nations' eyes on him, and he wants to be mad, he really does. He wants to tell Alfred off for putting him on the spot like this. He wants to, but Alfred looked so uncharacteristically nervous, that he simply can't, because upon closer inspection, Matthew notices the palm of Alfred's extended hand has a thin sheen of sweat over it, and his bottom lip is pinched inward—just the slightest bit—as if he were biting it from the inside.

He straightens himself and lifts a trembling hand to meet Alfred's. Alfred's smile widens, the nervousness leaving him in one sudden swoop, and Matthew smiles back, gently.

"Lead the way."

* * *

Matthew felt that this is what home must be.

Here, curled up in his Papa's lap, with Kumajirou's warm, heavy weight resting on his little legs. Here, where they sat nestled in sheets and pillows with a book filled with pretty, colourful pictures. Here, where Francis narrated a harrowing tale, his voice low, soft.

Matthew had previously thought that the world was rather lonely, at least for the most part. He had his people, but they were few in number and sparse. He walked along the plains of his snowy tundra, a tiny spec in seemingly endless whiteness. He had Kumajirou, his ever-faithful, though rather forgetful companion, but neither of them were the talkative sort. Long silences were common and Matthew had become accustomed to them, even comfortable with them. He became at ease with the quite stillness, where he would cuddle into Kumajirou for warmth and stare up as his sky came to life with the auroras, with nothing but the sound of their combined breaths, combined heartbeats, which were picked up and scattered with the wind.

But Paris was different.

There were people e_verywhere_, and there was the mark of civilization everywhere he looked. There was so much sound—the sound of music, of animals, of tools, of people—their words, laughter, sighs, groans, cries.

At first, Matthew sought out quiet—the noise was painful, it hurt his ears and his head. The noise was scary, unfamiliar.

So he wandered into the back forests, where there was only the sound of chirping birds and shallow streams (just like back home), or, after maids scolded him for being naughty and leaving them to worry as he gallivanted around unsupervised, he hid away in cupboards.

The cupboards were nice. He would fold his knees up, bow his head so that his chin touched his chest. This way, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear his heart again, that soothing _thump thump_ that was the first sound in his memory.

But Francis would always find him; it was like he had some sort of sixth sense when it came to his colonies. He would playfully tease Matthew, ask him why he preferred to stay in dark, tiny cupboards when he could be playing with the other children.

Francis was very talkative. This was something that took Matthew a while to get used to, but once he did, he found that he quite enjoyed Francis' chatter. He was content to just listen, because Francis talked about things Matthew hadn't even dreamed of, and he talked in such lovely, poetic words, and Matthew found that the world was a lot more fascinating than he had given it credit for.

Matthew was quick to learn Francis' words, his language, and he felt a surge of pride when Francis complimented him for it. He felt warmth build up in the bottom of his stomach when Francis cooed and fussed over him, when he called him things like _mon petit couer en sucre, mon ange, mon tresor, mon chou, mon cher..._

He felt loved.

He felt like he was a part of something big, a part of a family, a country, an empire. He stopped calling Francis _monsieur_ and began calling him _Papa._

And now, curled up in his blanket as Francis finished the story, Matthew smiled in his sleep.

This was _home_.

* * *

Matthew was too young to understand the weight of the title 'frozen wasteland' that was bestowed upon him, but he knew that it meant nothing good, and that it was something he was meant to be ashamed of.

Matthew had heard some people Francis was talking to say it, but when he asked about it, Francis turned away, expression pained. After a while, he stopped looking at Matthew altogether, and when Matthew tried to meet his eyes, Francis would leave the room.

Not too long afterwards, he found himself with Arthur, in another country and another house.

Arthur seemed kind enough, but he was no Francis. He wasn't talkative, he wasn't bright and cheerful. He stumbled over his words. He was curt, stern, proper.

"I have a surprise for you," Arthur was saying, smiling faintly. "I'm about to introduce you to your new brother."

Matthew opened his mouth to say that he didn't catch all of that, was about to ask if he could repeat the last few words in French, but he was cut off by a loud, shrill voice.

"Arthur! Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur! You're back!" A little bundle of what seemed to be pure hyperactive energy collided into Arthur's legs. "Did you bring me back something?"

"Why, yes, actually," Arthur said and the bundle squealed, releasing the man's legs. Arthur turned and bent down, gentle nudging Matthew forward.

Matthew had gone wide-eyed and was as nervous as he always was around new people. He still hadn't gotten used to Arthur and now he had to meet someone _else_?

"Alfred," Arthur said, "I want you to meet your little brother, Matthew."

Alfred blinked owlishly. He walked over to Matthew and Matthew shifted on the spot nervously, as Alfred began looking him over.

Finally, Alfred broke out into a large grin. "You look like me!" he exclaimed. "Well, except for your eyes. And this." He tugged on Matthew's curl.

"Ah!" Matthew screamed, backing away. "P-Please don't do that!"

Alfred tilted his head to the side. "If you say so." A moment later, Alfred's expression changed to that of utter boredom and he ran off as Matthew wilted on the spot.

"Chin up, lad," Arthur said. "He'll come around."

But Matthew wasn't too sure about that, and that night, when Matthew was alone in his new room and new bed with new sheets, he tried to muffle his sobs by burying his face in Kumajirou's fur. He was crying because Arthur didn't come in to read him a bedtime story, because he had gotten annoyed when Matthew kept speaking French, because he missed his Papa and didn't know why he gave Matthew away or if he even wanted to ever see him again. He cried because Alfred was supposed to be his _brother_, but Matthew knew Alfred didn't even like him, that Alfred thought he was boring.

He was scared and alone and just wanted to go home.

He was so deeply lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear his bedroom door creek open and when he felt something poke his cheek, he nearly screamed.

When he blinked away his tears, he saw Alfred standing there in his matching nightgown, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from between Matthew's blinds.

Matthew almost started crying harder, but instead rushed to vigorously wipe his eyes with his sleeve. He wasn't quiet enough, Alfred probably heard him from his room and had come to make fun of him for being such a baby.

"Hey," Alfred whispered, leaning forward as if he were about to disclose something of great importance. "Do you want to help me make a pillow fort?"

Matthew sniffled. He wasn't sure he heard that right. "_Quoi_?"

Alfred laughed, and took hold of Matthew's hand without another thought. "Don't tell me you've never made a fort before!"

Matthew wasn't really sure what to say, so he let Alfred lead the way, and seeing his bright grin made Matthew's head clear, reminded him of something he couldn't _quite_ remember, if that made any sense. He was scared but less alone, at least for the moment. At least until Alfred became bored again.

This large London manor was not very much like the one in Paris, but maybe he could get used to it.

Maybe.

* * *

In the following months, Matthew began to feel at home with the English language.

He still had an accent, so he didn't speak much (Alfred said his accent was _so cool_ but Arthur would crinkle his nose). He was still more at ease in French, but he was finally beginning to think in English. The language of his mind was now a blend of his two tongues, indecipherable to anyone but him, his own secret language that was foreign even to his beloved bear.

English had gone from something that was challenging, ugly, disdainful, to something he could admire. Arthur's library had helped—after immersing himself in the classics, Matthew found that the English language, although occasionally rough and abrupt sounding, could be beautiful. It could be something he was proud to understand.

Alfred, in contrast, didn't like reading much. He had far too much energy to stay idle for too long, he needed to run, to explore, to play make-believe and now that Matthew was around, he finally had someone to do these things with.

They would sit together and draw—Matthew would draw colourful scenes of cobble stone streets and quaint shops and Alfred would draw himself. He would draw himself fighting pirates (and saving a captured Matthew); he would draw himself outwitting dragons (and again saving a distressed Matthew); he would draw himself on the moon, proudly standing between its craters (with Matthew waving up at him from a tiny Earth).

They would play knights and Alfred would insist that Matthew be the damsel ("You have girly hair and you're younger so you have to, Mattie,") and Matthew's stomach would do odd flip-flops after Alfred 'rescued' him and kissed his hand.

Matthew's stomach became accustomed to the flip-flopping and the butterflies that fluttered excitedly in it when Alfred did certain things (when Alfred called him 'Mattie' or when he held his hand, when he stood in front of him protectively or when he was so obviously trying to make Matthew laugh). He wasn't sure what that meant, but every time he thought about it, it made him blush and hide his face behind Kumajirou.

When Alfred did those things, Matthew would forget the bad stuff—like when Alfred snuck bites out of his ice cream, or when he wouldn't share his toys, or when he dressed Matthew up in bows and makeup like some sort of living doll. He would forget that Alfred got all of Arthur's attention.

Matthew was at an age where he knew what 'frozen wasteland' meant, and he wondered if Alfred, all sunshine and energy, could melt the apparent ice in his veins and turn him into something beautiful.

* * *

He was quick to discover that Alfred's favourite game was 'Spaceman.'

Matthew himself was content where he was, happy to be bound to his land, to the Earth forever. The black-blue heavens seemed unattainable, threatening, cold and unwelcoming. Earth was home. The sky was far from it.

But as they grew older, Alfred talked about the sky more and more.

"I'm going to go to the moon, Mattie!" he declared one morning. "Just you wait and see! I'll wave down to you and you gotta promise to wave back."

"I promise," Matthew said, humouring him. He felt that, although he was the younger of the two, he was definitely the more mature one.

The way Alfred talked about the stars made it seem like if you just tried hard enough, reached out far enough, you could burn your fingertips on them.

He had overheard Arthur talking to some other grown-ups. "Matthew positively adores him, you know. He thinks Alfred hung the moon."

Now that was an English phrase that Matthew was immediately endeared by. He knew it couldn't be meant literally—Alfred was strong, but not strong enough to lift a moon, much less hang it in the sky.

But as Matthew watched Alfred zoom around the manor, with his arms held horizontal as if he had wings ("For the Queen's sake, lad, slow down before you break something again!"), Matthew thought that although Alfred might not be able to lift the moon, he might just touch it.

Idly, he wondered if Alfred would be more at home perched on the moon, among the stars.

* * *

When Matthew began to notice that Alfred was growing faster than him, faster than even their slight age difference would allow for, he frowned with worry.

Alfred was always faster, but he would slow down and wait when Matthew fell too far behind, when he fell down. But now it seemed Alfred was drifting too far away, like he was in too much of a hurry to wait for Matthew.

Alfred yelled a lot more, too.

Thankfully, none of his rage was directed towards Matthew, at least at first. He yelled at Arthur, yelled out his frustrations, yelled that he wanted freedom from Arthur's tyranny (and Matthew privately thought that Arthur wasn't so bad, that he at least took care of them and didn't abandon them or pick someone else over them).

One day Alfred declared he was leaving and Matthew wanted to cry, for Alfred, for Arthur, for another broken home.

What was frightening was how Alfred's attitude towards him himself changed. To Alfred, he was no longer the baby, the brother, the best friend. Alfred would show up on Matthew's balcony with a bouquet of roses. As if he were trying to woo him.

"Why won't you come with me, Mattie?" he whispered after Matthew let him in for the fifth night in a row. "Together, think how amazing we'd be." Matthew averted his gaze because he so badly wanted to be taken in by sweet words, so badly wanted to just pack up and leave with him. Alfred must have sensed this, because his hands lifted to squeeze Matthew's shoulders. "Don't you love me?"

Matthew sighed, sounding too tired for his apparent age. He _knew _what Alfred was trying to do and he couldn't s_tand _it. He felt like his eyes would frost over, that his heart would freeze into an icy husk. But he forced himself to remain calm, to remain as warm as possible. "Of course I love you, but I love Arthur, too, and I have to be loyal. I'm not like you, I'm not strong enough to leave yet and…" He made a point to meet his gaze and Alfred's grip on his shoulders tightened. "And I don't really want to."

There was heavy silence for a moment before Alfred hissed, "_Fine_," from between clenched teeth and released his hold. He turned and left, not glancing back even once.

* * *

York was burning and so was Matthew from the inside out, and Alfred crouched down to look at him and said, "Don't you see? It's destiny, Mattie."

Matthew writhed and spat out his words of hate at the face above him, looking so monstrously earnest as the flames of Matthew's own _heart,_ Matthew's own _home_,illuminated him like some perverse halo.

When Matthew first heard the words _Manifest Destiny _he cried and watched Arthur clench his fists in impotent rage and say, _I won't let him, Matthew, I won't, _and Matthew stopped listening because he couldn't believe the little boy who used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare, who used to stand in front of him protectively and declare that he would be his hero, who used to tease him about everything and anything but would cry when teased in return, would think like this.

And Matthew wanted to be mad, he wanted to make a grab for his rifle, and bring the butt of it down on his best friend-brother-enemy's head and knock some sense into him.

He wanted to hate him so viciously he'd be consumed by it, and he wouldn't have to deal with this uncertainty, this guilt, wouldn't have to deal with the feuding identities within himself.

Because hatred was easy, if Matthew hated Alfred, he'd know what he was (_Arthur's_) and he'd know what he'd say (_I hate you_) and he'd know what he'd do (_beat him, fight him, get him out out out_).

But Matthew _was_ fighting him, as hard as he could, because this Alfred had tasted power and was intoxicated by it and Matthew wasn't sure if Alfred knew what he was doing anymore, wasn't sure if Alfred knew what all of this would mean for them.

But as his capital crumbled and gave way to the crackling flames consuming it, Matthew felt he would shrivel up into ash as well. Become nothing before he had a chance to become anything.

"I'm sorry I had to do this," Alfred was saying, and what enraged and saddened Matthew the most was that he looked sincere in his apology. "It's just that sometimes extreme measures have to be taken. I had to make you see. You see now right? If you were really important to England, he'd be here.

"I'm the only one with you, and I'll always be with you, if you just let me, Mattie." Alfred bent down to kiss both of Matthew's sooty cheeks. "I'm sorry," he repeated, kissing his forehead. "Sorry," kiss to his nose, "Sorry," his chin, "Sorry," his jaw.

Matthew snarled and tried pushing him away with hands that were blistering in the heat. Alfred simply moved to kiss him on the lips this time, and Matthew was shocked into stillness. Alfred's kisses made no sense (_he _didn't make sense) because they were so tender, loving, like the ones they shared when they were both still toddling in frilly gowns.

Except this kiss was far less innocent, there was barely contained passion behind it, as if it took every iota of Alfred's restrain to hold back, to not do something they'd both regret. "It'll be different with me, it'll be better, I promise."

And Matthew squeezed his eyes shut tight because he's just so tired and they're both so damned—

"I love you, Mattie."

—and turned his face away, lips still tingling, wanting to embrace the man above him as much as he wanted to kill him, and feeling like he loved him as hard as he hated him.

* * *

Decades later, every week for a year, Matthew received a parcel, containing things like maple candy, flowers, books, and all variety of things Matthew enjoyed. And on those parcels were always two words written in familiar scrawl.

_I'm sorry._

The parcels didn't stop until Matthew knocked on Alfred's door, smiling tentatively when it was opened.

"You're forgiven, you goof."

Alfred's arms were immediately around him and tears pricked at the corners of their eyes—it was so goof to be like this again.

Matthew felt as if he could stay like this, just find a lush field of grass, nestle into his neighbour's warmth and fall asleep for a few centuries, because heavens knew they were both tired.

* * *

When Alfred planted his flag on the moon, Matthew was on his knees, face inches away from his television set.

"_That's one small step for man..."_

Matthew's breath hitched and he suddenly remembered something very important.

He rushed over to the back door, and feeling like a complete fool, but laughing all the while, he ran out onto the veranda. Face flushed, he waved wildly at the moon, which was barely visible behind the clouds.

"_...One giant leap for mankind."_

* * *

Matthew may have noticed, from the corner of his eyes, that other couples had started leaving the dance floor minutes ago. Hey may have heard Gilbert yell from the buffet, "Hey losers, the song's over!" He may have noticed that the two of them were now the only ones on the floor.

But he doesn't bother pointing it out. He's perfectly happy to stay here, swaying gently, arms wrapped around Alfred and Alfred's arms wrapped around him.

He nuzzles his face into Alfred's shoulder, pressing closer to him. Here, it's warm, safe, comfortable. Smells nice.

And when Alfred tilts his face to kiss him, Matthew almost laughs as another thought occurs to him.

Here is _home._


End file.
